


Merry Bells Keep Ringing

by pearl_o



Series: Carrie-fic [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Christmas, Kid Fic, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-06
Updated: 2005-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thing is, in my head, the munchkin's still stuck at fifteen or so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Bells Keep Ringing

Thing is, in my head, the munchkin's still stuck at fifteen or so. Trapped in amber, like those bugs and stuff that used to feed on dinosaurs and now just sit around looking pretty while people make impressed noises over them.

Except, of course, that's not the way it really is, she's not frozen just because we don't see her every day anymore, and so every time I pick her up at the airport it's a new shock, because she is _grown_. I know me and Fraser are getting older, too, I just have to look over at Fraser every morning, but day by day, you don't notice it so much, you don't think about it. Carrie, we only see a couple times a year, so it's a big surprise every time.

I'm still taller than her, though, so that's something, and I give her a big hug and grab her duffel bag and herd us out of the crowded airport to the truck.

"Where's Dad?" is the first thing she says after she's got her seatbelt all into place and I got us on the road.

"Ha," I say. "He's busy cleaning the cabin. Everything has to be squeaky clean for this kind of occasion. Also I think he may be making cookies, I couldn't get a straight answer out of him." This is all true. I figure Carrie doesn't need to know that Fraser mostly stays on the property these days -- he'll go into town with me once in a while, go shopping, but he hasn't been back to a big city since the last operation.

Anyway, Carrie just says, "Ooh, cookies! Do you think he'll make oatmeal chocolate chip?"

"Dunno," I say, "guess it depends on how much he likes you."

Five years ago, she would have rolled her eyes at that -- ten years ago she would've stuck her tongue out at me. Now she just smiles to herself and looks back out the window.

Last time she was up here was Fraser's birthday, back in July. She's cut her hair since then -- it's shorter now, a little curlier. Looks good.

Last night Fraser was so built up he couldn't sleep, between the anticipation and nerves and everything. And when Fraser can't sleep, _I_ can't sleep, so finally I gave up trying. Both of us were pretty tired, so nothing real athletic, but we kissed for a real long time, and then I jerked us both off, and then we kissed some more. Even after that, Fraser was still being weird, though, and we ended up sitting on the couch watching home movies -- Fraser and Carrie playing hockey when she was twelve, her first birthday party with us, her and me and my folks in Arizona -- until Fraser fell asleep like that on the couch and I wandered back into the bedroom and crashed. Fraser must've had a hell of a neck ache this morning, but he didn't say anything about it.

Carrie's telling me about work, about all her kids -- she teaches grade school, seven-year-olds, and she's good at it. I think she must have got the patience from Fraser, because I never had any. I just had _her_ to take care of, not twenty or thirty monsters, and that was enough to drive me crazy. Some of those days, when she was still real little, when Fraser was out on patrol for days on end and the sun had been gone for weeks and she was throwing temper tantrums and Dief wasn't good for doing anything but sitting around feeling sorry for himself -- some of those days, if you'd dangled a ticket to Chicago in front of my nose, I would have grabbed it like a shot.

That's a lie. I wouldn't've. It made a nice fantasy, though, sometimes, especially when I was washing pissy sheets and cleaning up wolf puke and I hadn't even seen my boyfriend in a week.

Carrie's finished up her story. She fumbles around with the tapes in the dashboard for a bit, finally sticks in some weird folk music Fraser likes, closes her eyes and leans her head back against the seat. It's a long trip for her -- cars, taxis, planes, all of it, all the way across the country. She's had a long day.

"You gonna call your guy, let him know you're okay?" I say, and Carrie jumps a little in her seat and looks surprised.

"Oh -- no. I told Tim I'd call when I got to the cabin. It's fine."

"Uh-huh," I say, but really I'm thinking she doesn't want to call with me right here. Whatever. "So we ever gonna meet him? You're living with this guy, you have a cat, even, and your dad and me never set eyes on him."

"I sent you pictures when we moved in," Carrie says, in her accusing voice -- she got that from Fraser, too.

I make a little _hmmph_ noise. "You know what I mean. Who are you embarrassed about, us or him?"

"Neither," she says, real firmly, so I believe her.

"You should bring him up next time you come. Your dad likes him already, I bet. And I'll be nice."

"You two could always come and visit _me_," Carrie says. "You haven't been to Ontario since I graduated."

That I don't have an answer for, so I just grunt and stare ahead at the road.

I think Carrie falls asleep a couple minutes later -- not all the way, but a little bit, enough to stop humming along with the music and start breathing real slow and even. The roads get tricky after a bit, so I have to stop looking at her out of the corner of my eye and actually start concentrating on driving. It's not as bad as when we used to live farther north, when she was little, but December in the NWT is never anything to sneeze at, if you know what I mean.

She wakes up again a couple minutes after we pass through the town, about ten minutes from the cabin. "Almost there," I say to her, while she's still blinking vaguely out the window.

"You know, Daddy," the munchkin says slowly, but she just trails off instead of saying anything else.

I say, "What?"

Carrie's hesitating; she's shifting in her seat the same way she used whenever she was gonna tell me and Fraser about her detention or how she broke Fraser's favorite lamp or how actually we were really incredibly embarrassing and did we have to be so loud and talk funny (me) and wear the hat and lick things (Fraser) and be so _weird_ around all her friends (both of us)?

The last wasn't in those words, actually, but Fraser and me both got pretty good at translating teenage girl after a couple of years.

"Nothing," Carrie says finally, "it's just -- do you really think you guys should be living so far out, still?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you aren't getting any younger, you know. And I know it's a lot of work, keeping the place going out here, and that can't be easy for you. And do you know how far away you two are from the nearest neighbour? Let alone a hospital? I worry about you."

"Jesus _Christ_, Caroline," I say -- I don't swear in front of her, hardly ever, but sometimes I can't help it. "What are you saying, you want the two of us in a nursing home or something?"

Carrie sighs, leans her head against the window. "That's not what I meant."

"That's what it sounded like."

"Just -- couldn't you at least consider it? You could move closer to me. Or just closer to _somebody_. I'd worry about you two a lot less if you had somebody next door to look after you."

We're coming up the pathway just as Carrie finishes that up. Fraser's standing on the porch, wrapped up in a gazillion layers, leaning on his cane with one of the pups dancing around his feet. He raises his hand in a small wave as he catches sight of us. I can see his smile from here.

"Sure," I say, picking up the conversation back up, "yeah, we could do that. Just--" I park, kill the engine, turn to her and flash her a smile. "You might need to kill us first."

I give her a peck on the forehead, and she sighs again while I grab her bag from the back and open the door.

* * *

I go straight on in -- smells good inside; Fraser ended up making cookies after all -- and Queenie follows me, but Fraser and Carrie stay out on the porch. I dump Carrie's bag on her bed and head back to the kitchen and sit down at the table. Queenie curls around my feet, grumbling, but I tell her, "Chocolate's no good for dogs, you know that," and pop one of the cookies into my mouth. It's too hot, still, and the melted chocolate burns the roof of my mouth.

Door opens from outside, and Fraser says, "Ray, don't touch the cookies yet. They're not cool enough."

"Yeah, thanks for the tip," I call back.

Carrie comes into the kitchen, apparently guided by her nose, same as me. She looks from the cookies to me and back again. "Oatmeal chocolate chip," she says. "My favorite." She hesitates, shooting me another glance, then grabs one and throws the thing whole into her mouth, and then mumbles, "Ow ow ow ow ow" through a mouthful of cookie.

_Some_ things she gets from me, I'll give you that.

Fraser's gotten himself out of all his bulky stuff, down to just his big sweater and jeans and boots. He comes in, stands behind my chair, squeezes my shoulder. "Would you mind chopping us some more wood?"

"No problemo," I say, even though that drive was kind of a bitch and I'm pretty tired and really I just want to sit down in front of the fireplace with a mug of the hot cider Fraser's got going on the stove and watch them trim the pretty little tree Fraser picked out. But if we need wood, we need wood, and at least Fraser mentioned it before I got my boots off.

Fraser and me used to split all our chores, fifty-fifty, but woodchopping is one of the things Fraser can't do so good these days. Which is not a big deal, because it just means there's some stuff I take care of now, and Fraser gets extra laundry and cooking duty, both of which he was always better than me at anyway. It is not like we're _sick_ or anything. We may be old, but that's a whole nother thing. I am just as spry as ever -- and look at my dad, he was changing engines same as ever till he hit eighty. And as for Fraser -- jesus, if you'd asked me thirty years ago if I thought Fraser would even be alive to see _fifty_, I would have said "No way, Jose," but Fraser is not only alive, Fraser is _great_, he is _fine_, he is healthy and happy and hearty and all that stuff. He's got a bad leg from that last bullet, yeah, and his heart isn't one hundred percent, but considering all the stuff Fraser's done to himself over the last sixty years, the man's doing damn good.

Carrie doesn't know what she's talking about. There's nothing me and Fraser need that we don't got right here.

I'm pretty sure she knows better than to mention her idea to Fraser, at least. He's not as open-minded as I am. He might be hurt or something.

Fraser and Carrie are both over by the tree when I come back inside. I fix up the fire with more wood, take off my outdoor clothes, and fulfill my fantasy by plopping on the couch. Fraser's already got the mug on the end table next to my seat, because Fraser is secretly an angel come to Earth in retired-Mountie-form.

"--and they always like hearing the stories," Carrie's saying to Fraser, as they both are setting ornaments on the tiny branches. "Especially this time of year -- their grasp on geography is a little shaky, you know, so I think they're under the impression you're very close to the North Pole."

"Who says we aren't?" I say, taking a sip from my mug. "You can bring your kids back greetings from Santa. We'll just dig out your dad's dress uniform and stick a new hat on him."

Fraser ignores this from me, and take this fancy glittery construction paper job from Carrie's hands and reaches down to place it right on the front of the tree. It looks just like the ones Carrie and me used to make when she was real little, except Carrie was never that good with the scissors or the glue or the markers when she was a kid.

"You just make that one?" I say.

She turns and smiles at me. "I was just telling Dad about making snowflakes with the kids for our art project last week."

"It looks nice."

"It's lovely," Fraser says, in a too-serious voice, and I roll my eyes which he can't see because he's still looking at the tree with his hands on his hips.

Only a couple more ornaments -- a couple of the macaroni kind from when Carrie really was a kid, some baby Jesuses and reindeer Fraser whittled a couple years back -- and then they're done. Carrie takes the seat next to me on the couch, and Fraser goes over to the stereo and puts on some Bing Crosby.

He sings along with it -- not loud, but I can hear him easy, soft and sweet and full. _Happy holidays_.

Carrie sighs happily, leans in against me a little; I put my mug down and give her a one-armed hug.

"While the merry bells keep ringing," Fraser and Bing sing.

I give Carrie a kiss on her hair and murmur, "You know, I meant what I said in the car."

"What?" says Carrie, sounding a little confused.

"About your boyfriend," I clarify. "I mean, he's part of the family, right? Practically. He's -- anybody of yours is welcome here, anytime."

Carrie sighs and says, "Daddy..."

Fraser's hearing is still ridiculous and putting birds of prey to shame -- he butts into the conversation around here. "It's true, Carrie, you should consider it an open invitation. We would love to meet Tim. He's a librarian, you said?"

"Yeah," says Carrie. She's pulled away from me at this point.

Fraser sits back down in his armchair, across from us. "You know, your great-grandparents were librarians -- travelling ones, of course. When I was a child, we--"

"I know, Dad," Carrie says. She's looking up at the ceiling now.

I've got this sudden suspicion about what's going on here. I lean forward to catch her eye. "Look, Carrie, you can be straight with me here -- is this about the gay thing?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Carrie says, really loud. She folds her arms against her chest and bangs her head against the back of the couch.

"Caroline!" says Fraser.

"Hey, hey, hey!" I say, jabbing my finger forward. "Watch the mouth there."

"I'm sorry," Carrie says. She doesn't sound all that sorry, but she's a grown girl now, there's not much we can do. "My boyfriend is not a homophobe, and I think he figured it out the first time I mentioned my fathers. And he's not a traveling librarian. He's a librarian who stays in one place. One place as in the city. He gets a rash whenever he leaves the city limits, he doesn't even go _camping_, and if I brought him up here to visit, you two would well-meaningly kill him off within a day, all right? Not everybody in the world can be a mountain man, all right?"

Fraser and I exchange looks. After a minute, we both shrug and Fraser says "I suppose" and I say, "Yeah, I guess, sure" and Carrie lets out a long impatient breath.

* * *

Carrie isn't hungry for the dinner Fraser made, and she hits the sack early. The pup goes with her; she's been trailing adoringly at Carrie's heels since she got here. Queenie's the only one of the dogs we've kept in the house for years -- I haven't asked Fraser, but I think she reminds him a little of Dief, back when he and Fraser first met. Not a freak like Dief, of course, but Queenie's sharp as a tack, and good-natured. I'm not surprised she's taken a shine to Carrie.

The Christmas music's still on, but the volume's way down low -- Bing's long gone now, and instead we have Judy Garland wailing away for us to have ourselves a merry little Christmas. All the lights are off except the ones on the tree, and me and Fraser are on the couch still, slightly less vertical than we started out. Fraser starts giving me one of his world famous neck rubs -- which is not an everyday occurrence, let me tell you. I do not know what I did to earn one this time, but I am not a guy to look a special treat in the mouth, so I just melt away for a couple minutes while Fraser makes me forget my name.

"That was great, Fraser," I say when he's done, stretching out a little more on the couch. Fraser makes a little pleased "mmmm" noise and I twist my head so I can kiss him on the mouth. It's nice, but we can't do it for long without moving in a way that's going to make both of us real unhappy and sore in the morning, so we break it off, and I relax some more, leaning my head back against Fraser's shoulder.

"Carrie and I had an interesting discussion while you were outside earlier."

I close my eyes. "Let me guess. You chipped in together to buy me a pony."

I expect Fraser to go into his thing about how ponies aren't really adapted for such a extreme environment, but instead he says quietly, "Carrie wants us to move south," and I tense up.

"She said that to you?" I say.

"Was it supposed to be a secret?" Fraser's voice is all mild and thoughtful. I hate that.

"There's no reason for her to mention it, because I already told her what the answer was."

"Ray, she did make some persuasive points--"

I sit up and twist around, so I can look into Fraser's face. "Look," I say, "I know from stupid ideas, all right? And _that_ is one stupid idea."

"Ray--" Fraser starts, but I don't let him go anywhere with it.

"No, Fraser, okay, either we're going to die or we're not going to die. Either way, we're going to do it right damn here. This is what you wanted and it's damn well what you're going to get. What the hell do you think we'd do in a nursing home or something? Garden? Play shuffleboard? You would last three minutes and then you'd get yourself killed, and I'm not going to let that happen."

"Ray," Fraser says in his gentlest voice, the one he knows drives me crazy, "you're getting very worked up."

I narrow my eyes at him, and he giggles, just a little before he catches himself.

"You're an asshole," I announce.

"Language," he says, "there's a child in the house, Ray!" His voice is the exact same tone as every time he said that to me when Carrie really _was_ a kid, except this time he's a total faker.

"Asshole," I repeat, slightly louder -- and when Fraser giggles again, he really does almost look thirty-five again, even with all the gray in his hair and every line in his face. "One of these days I'm gonna leave you for someone young and pretty, Fraser, and then you'll be all alone with nothing to do but think about how bad you treated me."

Fraser says, "That's just silly, Ray."

We're still kissing when the munchkin wanders out of her room. She heads straight to the kitchen, runs a glass of water, but we're still kind of entangled when she stops in the doorframe on her way back.

She blinks at us, still half-asleep, and says in a slow blurry voice, "One of the advantages of being adopted, I've always thought, is the ability to believe your parents never once have had sex." She blinks at us again for a second and adds "Good night" like an afterthought before she disappears back into her room.

I have to laugh, because no _way_ is she going to remember this in the morning.

"You know, she's gained weight since her last visit," Fraser says in a conversational tone. "Approximately seven pounds, I'd say. She's looking very well."

I climb up off the couch. "Sleep," I say, and offer Fraser my hand to help him up. Fraser takes it without another word, and we head to our bedroom to sleep til Christmas Eve.


End file.
